Forest of the Gods
by TheCoolestAirBender
Summary: Minerva McGonagall finally gets a chance to live a peaceful life as the Headmistress of Hogwarts, until a seemingly accidental meeting with a white-haired stranger brings chaos and pain into it once again. But will it bring only that?
1. Chapter 1

**Hello! I'm back. This is my new story about the same Minerva McGonagall and her life in Middle-Earth. I hope you'll enjoy, because I still don't have the full idea of what I should do with this... Anyway, enjoy!**

 **P.S. Flashbacks are written in italics.**

* * *

 _Forest of the Gods_

Silence anew gently lulled her back to the deep slumber she had yet to awake from. Blades of grass gently brushed against her fingertips, warmth and energy flooded her body, numb and cold. The soothing chirp of birds, the light breeze of wind and the contrasting shrill whispers — all to drill through her prone skull.

Minerva McGonagall idly opened her emerald eyes. Crystal blue sky, blinding sun… Neither white ceiling, nor her silk sheets were among the objects of her sightings, seemingly.

These weren't the grounds of Hogwarts. And when she gathered herself to her feet and turned in full circle, Minerva knew that this wasn't anything even _close_ to Scotland.

It was spring. She stood among the golden grass, in the depths of wavering meadow. It was warm, too warm for a morning such as this one. And there were mountains, range of snowy peaks rolled across the horizon and she could only gaze at them in wonder.

It was supposed to be late autumn.

Minerva let her gaze slide across her own arms. She held her wand, but stranger still, she wore a ring of gold with a burning stone of ruby. Her confusion only deepened as she traced the fabric of her cloak, obsidian and heavy as never, for hidden under was her attire — a tunic.

Minerva took a deep breath of the lukewarm air. She couldn't tell where the hell she was. Minerva McGonagall, the supposedly esteemed headmistress of Hogwarts, didn't know where she was, nor _why_ she was here. Was this a dream? An illusion? Perhaps a trap? Unfortunately, she couldn't remember _anything_ from last night; not a single fragment that could help her lay out the whole image crossed her mind.

With a sigh Minerva closed her eyes and thought of Hogwarts. A frown crossed her features for she was still here, in the golden meadow.

 _Damn it._

She tried to apparate again. No such luck.

"Do not move."

Minerva froze in place. She could sense them, all three of the group. But why hadn't she heard them approach?

"Drop your stick." _Stick?_

"That's my _wand_ ," she said. Her voice dropped dangerously low. Minerva spun on her heel in a sudden movement and cried out, " _Stupefy_!"

The tall, shaggy, dark-haired man fell to the ground, unconscious. " _Expelliarmus!_ " A red bolt of light disarmed the seemingly small, red-head dwarf before he could even swing his axe. Within a second she turned to the blonde stranger and cast a shield of protection; the emerald arrow bounced off of it and sunk into the ground.

"Tell me, is there any particular reason why such an aberrant trio would attack a stranger?" Minerva questioned calmly, never lowering her wand from the chest of the blonde man. Neither did he lower his bow.

"Because you own what was never yours to possess," he said, drawing the string of his weapon tighter.

"Ay, lass," the dwarf said to her left, "the sword you have isn't yours."

Minerva cautiously turned her gaze to the object she hadn't noticed before. Indeed, not too far to her right lay a sword, its deep blue handle glistening in the middle of the golden meadow.

" _Accio_ ," she called and followed the weapon with her gaze. Her fingers softly brushed against the unfamiliar writing, carved into the depths of silver. Minerva couldn't tell how, but it seemingly wasn't the first time she held this sword in particular. "I may have given it to you if you hadn't ambushed me but a moment ago," she said, turning her gaze to the blue-eyed man. "Whom does it belong to?"

"It is none of your concern."

Minerva raised the sword to point at the slowly approaching dwarf. "The only way you may get this sword is if you are the owner."

"None of us are," the voice behind her said. "He's dead."

Minerva could sense the undeniable anguish among the trio; shadows of grief danced in their dim eyes as they gazed at her, defeated and weary.

"And his name?"

"Gandalf," the dark man said, inching to her right. "Gandalf the Grey. And the sword belongs to him."

Gandalf. Gandalf the… White?

" _Whiskey with ice, if you may."_

 _Minerva lowered her dim gaze to the half-empty glass of her scotch, neglecting the silvery voice to her right. Perhaps the Three Broomsticks wasn't the ideal place to spend an evening in for the Headmistress of Hogwarts, but everything could beat the empty and cold castle. Besides, it had some pretty good drinks._

" _A lovely night, isn't it?"_

 _Minerva downed the last of her drink. "Especially when you enjoy it in silence," she said, not bothering to meet his figure._

 _She could feel his smile that had risen after her words; light and soft, the kind that reached the eyes. And perhaps it didn't make any sense, but only because of that Minerva turned her head to her right._

 _Minerva was captivated by his gaze, to say the least. His silver eyes, kind and deep, burned under the dim lights of the bar as the brightest of flames. White hair framed his features, softened by the smile she could only imagine to be as mysterious; a neatly trimmed beard could only enrich the final picture. He wore a perfectly fitting three piece suit with a tie, impeccably white, admirably tailored. Plainly stunning._

" _May I ask for your name?" he questioned lightly, reaching for her free hand._

" _Minerva. Minerva McGonagall."_

 _The merit behind his eyes was now as evident as the interest behind her own. "Gandalf the White," he said, bringing her hand to his lips. "A pleasure."_

"I beg your pardon?" Minerva asked, gripping her wand tighter.

"This sword belongs to Gandalf the Grey," the man repeated.

She could feel her own bewilderment grow as she heard the words. Gandalf _the Grey?_

To add to Minerva's rising tumult, her thoughts and sentences under structure were cut off by the alarming galloping of horses. Who even _rode_ horses these days?

"Come," the man behind her said. "We do not know who rides."

The four of them hid behind a large boulder, lurking in the shadows, waiting. Minerva still held the silver sword tight between her fingers.

All of this was just unbelievable.

The company of riders flew past them, golden banters billowing in the light breeze of morning. Surely, the leader of the trio Minerva had just met was already calling out his 'greetings' and third of a second after the four of them were surrounded from every side. _So much for the hope of hospitality,_ Minerva mused, eyeing the drawn spears.

"What business does an elf, a man, a dwarf, and a woman have in the Riddermark?" the leader inquired audaciously. _Ridder- what?_ "Speak quickly!"

Honestly, this day only got stranger and stranger.

"Give me your name, horse-master, and I shall give you mine," the dwarf replied. Minerva watched with interest how the man dismounted his horse and came to stand before the red-head dwarf.

"I would cut off your head, Dwarf," he sneered, "if it stood but a little higher from the ground."

The blonde, fast and with hair bright as lightning, drew an arrow, aiming at the chest of the one threatening. "You would _die_ before your stroke fell."

Minerva inwardly raised an eyebrow. The dramatic scene that was unfolding before her very eyes could undoubtedly outmatch the ones of those soapy romance novels.

The shaggy man held back the hand of the archer. "I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn," he said. "This is Gimli, son of Gloin, and Legolas of the Woodland Realm. And this is…" he hesitated and turned his questioning gaze to her, waiting an answer to the unpleasant pause.

"Minerva McGonagall."

"Minerva McGonagall," the man continued. "We are friends of Rohan and of Théoden, your king." Oh, yes _._ The monarch ruler of England, Queen Elizabeth II, must have had changed her name. And gender, in kind.

"Théoden no longer recognizes friend from foe," the leader of the company of riders answered, taking his helmet off. "Not even his own kin." The rest of the group raised their spears. "Saruman has poisoned the mind of the king and claimed lordship over these lands. My company are those loyal to Rohan. And for that, we are banished. The White Wizard is cunning. He walks here and there, they say, as an old man, hooded and cloaked. And everywhere, his spies slip past our nets."

"We are no spies," Aragorn said. "We track a party of Uruk-hai westward across the plain. They have taken two of our friends captive."

Minerva felt a light pang of her heart. Perhaps she should had just given the sword back, avoiding the fight.

"The Uruks are destroyed. We slaughtered them during the night."

"But there were two Hobbits!" Gimli cried out. "Did you see two Hobbits with them?"

"They would be small," Aragorn added. "Only children to your eyes." _Children?_

The armored man shook his head. "We left none alive. We piled the carcasses and burned them."

Grief. Sadness. Death. All of what Minerva had tried to escape for months from came back to invade her senses.

"Dead?" the dwarf asked in disbelief.

The rider only solemnly nodded. "I am sorry," he said and whistled after a moment. Three horses were lead into the center of the gathering. "May these horses bear you to better fortune than their former masters. Farewell." The man put on his helmet and swiftly mounted his horse. "Look for your friends. But do not trust to hope. It has forsaken these lands," he said to the four of them. "We ride north!"

And with those words the men rode away. To north, apparently.

Minerva hid her wand; the trio was as much of a threat to her as the golden leaf beside her feet.

"What did you mean by 'Gandalf the Grey'?" she questioned, handing Aragorn the sword. "I thought he called himself 'White'?"

"You can keep it. We don't have any use for it," the man told her, mounting his horse. "And no, I am most certain he had always been grey. Perhaps you've met Saruman."

"Dismiss my words," Minerva said. The light pain behind her eyes was one the many proofs that she should, too. "But I might still be in need of directions."

"Ride with us," Legolas interjected, holding the rein of his and Gimli's horse. "We could use your tricks in search of our friends." So now Minerva was but a magician, with the ability to pull a bloody rabbit out of a hat?

"Then you shall get your directions," Aragorn added. "And answers."

 _Not if your friends are dead, no._

"Very well," she said after a minute of battling her own thoughts. "Do not make me regret this." Minerva walked to the obsidian black horse who looked threateningly wild — _wait._

How _did_ one ride a horse?

* * *

Death had been following Minerva McGonagall long before she was even born. Even at a time like this, her emerald eyes gazed at the trails of dark crimson, splattered on the wilted grass and bodies that lay _everywhere_. She couldn't escape it. Not even here.

When Minerva _very_ carefully dismounted her wild horse, the odd trio were already sprinting towards the gloomy forest ahead; fortunately, their friends seemedto be alive. She didn't have to use her _tricks_ yet, but her heightened senses told that she might — the wood didn't look very inviting and rather reminded of the Forbidden one. And although without any wish, Minerva still followed the company into it.

"Fangorn forest," Aragorn spoke as she neared them.

"What madness drove them in here?" Gimli threw a rhetorical question. His fingers brushed against one of the dark, splattered leaves and the dwarf tasted the crimson liquid. "Orc blood." He spat in disgust.

Minerva cautiously looked around, wandering under the tall, silver trees and their mysterious shadows. They were _speaking._

"This forest is old. Very old," Legolas said ahead of her. "Full of memory and _anger._ "

"I would be angry as well if someone threatened me with an axe," Minerva answered, eyeing Gimli's slightly furious expression.

"Gimli!" Aragorn called. "Lower it." The dwarf slowly obeyed.

The blonde cried out a few incomprehensible words — _Latin? Spanish? French?_

"The white wizard approaches," he said normally. _Finally,_ a fellow wizard _._ On the other hand, for all she had already seen it might have been a magician for children's birthdays.

Aragorn shifted, his body tensed in sudden awareness. "Do not let him speak. He will put a spell on us."

Minerva sighed inwardly, pulling out her trustworthy wand. "He won't," she murmured, focusing her powers for a sensible duel.

The trio drew their weapons — the same ones that they had tried to murder her with.

Aragorn gave an inessential hand gesture. "We must be quick."

Bright light blinded Minerva's eyesight as she whipped her wand for a spell of attack. The others dropped their weapons in alarm; they were all left defenseless. Except for her wand, still up for the task of destroying the one before her.

"You are tracking the footsteps of two young Hobbits," the possible enemy said.

Aragorn clenched his fists in fury. "Where are they?!"

"They passed this way the day before yesterday. They met someone they did not expect. Does that comfort you?" Not a single one of their company, apparently.

"Who are you? Show yourself!" Aragorn called once again.

The light faded and the three beside Minerva gasped.

 _Surprise, surprise._

* * *

 **A.N. So, what do you think? Should I go on with this story, or no?**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hi! I'm back with yet another chapter of this story! I want to thank every one of you for supporting me and reading this story!**

 **I'm thinking of updating once every week, if I'll manage, so the next chapter will be out pretty soon! Anyway, this one is a bit shorter, but perhaps the next one will be longer.**

 **Enjoy.** _(Thoughts are written in italics!)_

* * *

 _Chapter 2_

Minerva felt her heartbeat speed up to the barrier that pushed the limits. He stood before them — tall, all white and aggravatingly shiny, with same deep eyes and… and _bastard._

She could sense the trio's immense joy, their surprise and relief — he was supposedly dead, right?

"It cannot be," Aragorn managed, carefully stepping to the bright figure of none other than Gandalf the White _. And they didn't believe her._ "But you fell!"

Minerva lowered her wand in defeat.

"Through fire and water," he began in answer. "From the lowest dungeon to the highest peak I fought with the Balrog of Morgoth, until at last I threw down my enemy and smote his ruin upon the mountainside. Darkness took me and I strayed out of thought and time. Stars wheeled overhead and every day was as long as a life age of the Earth. But it was not the end. I felt life in me again." His eyes met hers for a briefest of moments. "I've been sent back until my task is done."

"Gandalf…"

"Gandalf?" _Did he forget his own bloody name?_ "Yes. That was what they used to call me… Gandalf the Grey. That was my name," he said with a smile. "But _I_ am Gandalf the White."

 _Oh, Gods._ Minerva McGonagall didn't know if she was supposed to kill him _or_ smile back.

"And I come back to you now," Gandalf said, meeting her masked gaze with his twinkling one, "at the turn of the tide."

She took an unsure step backwards. Minerva had had _enough_.

Turning away from all of the absurdity, she flew through the darkness of the forest — without destination and without the usual stealth of her mind. And he followed her, calling her name over and over again, until she thought it would drive her mad.

"I apologize, Minerva," he whispered, finally managing to grab her hand and halt her rush.

Gandalf did not stop her sudden movement — her wand lightly sunk into the skin of his jaw. " _Don't,_ " Minerva hissed. So much for the attempts to calm her infamous temper. "Don't say _anything_ or I will hex you so hard you're going to be Gandalf _the Grey_ again."

Minerva shot a deadly glance at the snorting dwarf behind his back. There was nothing _comical_ about this.

"Ah," Gandalf breathed out, slowly freeing her arm from his soft grasp. "You haven't changed a bit, I see."

"You don't _know_ me."

Yet again Minerva spun on her heel and strode forward, deaf to the steps behind her. She still held his silver sword; because of that she almost spilled blood on his perfectly shiny clothes. He knew better than to appear out of nowhere.

"I shall give you all of the answers to your questions," Gandalf said in defeat. "And then you may choose."

"Good to know I still have a choice," she replied; her voice had unnoticeably turned monotonous and deadly. "Where am I and _why_ am I here?"

"Middle-earth."

"I'm in a middle of _what_?"

"The five of us are currently located in the forest of Fangorn. And all of this is Middle-earth," he explained. "But I cannot answer your second question here, for it takes time."

"I don't _have_ time," she drawled lowly. "I'm supposed to be teaching a class of second-years right about now. But with you and your mysterious ways I might as well just quit."

"Oh, Minerva," Gandalf murmured. "I shall apologize to you at length if you would but ride with us to Edoras."

"Edoras?" Gimli questioned. "That is no short distance!"

"Indeed, we must ride this instant."

Minerva thought briefly about the absurdity of this whole situation, before sighing and strolling to her horse.

* * *

The company rode through the plains of Middle-earth for _hours,_ racing with time and the renewing gusts of biting could feel her fingers growing undoubtedly numb — apart from the uncomfortable sensation of a living thing jumping between her legs, she still had to hold the harsh to skin reins.

Gandalf still hadn't given up trying to get a word out of her. Honestly, it was insanely annoying and if he weren't to stop any time soon, he would find himself unconscious and with a dreadful headache.

At last, to Minerva's immense content, her eyes gradually focused on the sunlit hills across the horizon and a small village came into the view. The lonely alabaster building on the top had a bare touch of gold and a royal ambience.

"Edoras and the Golden Hall of Meduseld," Gandalf said beside her. "There dwells Théoden, King of Rohan, whose mind is overthrown. Saruman's hold over King Théoden is now very strong." His voice held a pitch of fury. _Who was this Saruman?_

The five of them rode through the gates and into the grounds of Edoras. "Be careful what you say," Gandalf voiced. "Do not look for welcome here."

And he was right, of course.

Overall, the atmosphere inside the impoverished village was grim. People stared at the new arrivals with cold, inhospitable eyes; the dark, colourless attires of theirs could only add to the gloomy, evident reflection of their life.

"You'll find more cheer in a graveyard," Gimli said, eyeing the crowd.

It was true, in a way. The last funeral Minerva'd had the honour of attending had been with a trace of laughter and joy. Not for her, anyway.

Praising the Gods above, Minerva finally dismounted Atratus, that _wild and stubborn_ horse. Behind Gandalf's frame she walked up the steps to the Hall alongside her temporary companions.

"I cannot allow you before Theoden King so armed, Gandalf Greyhame," the man by whom they were stopped but a moment ago said. "By order of Grima Wormtongue."

Gandalf nodded for Legolas, Gimli and Aragorn to give up their weapons. As an answer to her silent question of what to do with her wand, Aragorn beside her shook his head. The others surrendered their ammunition, an _impressive_ collection of it. For muggles, that is.

"Your staff," the man said once again as they tried to enter, gazing at the white wizard with caution in his eyes.

"Oh," Gandalf murmured. "You would not part an old man from his walking stick?" he asked with his childish innocence. _A true actor_ , Minerva noted darkly.

The guard hesitated, but without using much of his logic he let them pass. Gandalf linked his arm with Legolas' one, winking to Aragorn in not such a discreet manner.

The halls were old, dusted and had a heavy feeling of power, distant, yet it had such a remarkable impact. The only thing missing a beat was the man on the throne.

A mummified person with white, tangled hair, glazed eyes and expressionless, empty gaze. He was certainly under control of someone powerful — a wizard who used dark magic, perhaps. _Imperio?_ And beside him stood a man, much like Severus in exterior, to her disgust.

"The courtesy of your hall is somewhat lessened of late, Théoden King," Gandalf spoke, coming closer to the throne.

The greasy man whispered a few words to the lessened king.

"Why should I welcome you, Gandalf Stormcrow?" Théoden whispered with a croaking voice.

"A just question, my liege," the man at his side said. "Late is the hour in which this conjurer chooses to appear. Lathspell I name him. Ill news is an _ill_ guest."

Minerva couldn't agree more.

"Be silent!" Gandalf sneered. "Keep your forked tongue behind your teeth. I have not passed through fire and death to bandy crooked words with a witless worm." He shoved his white staff at the man's furious face.

"His staff," he grunted, backing away from the wizard. "I told you to take the wizard's _staff_!"

Men that had been surrounding them throughout the whole exchange were now threateningly closing in on the five of them. Whipping out her dark wand, Minerva knocked-out a handful of them within a few flicks of her wrist.

A shrill, mocking and rather unpleasant laugh led to Minerva's turn towards the throne of the king.

"You have no power here, Gandalf the _Grey_ ," Théoden said with a grin worthy of Tom Riddle himself.

To her dismay, the wizard dramatically threw off his silver cloak, revealing his most recent identity. The king gasped, blinded by the bright light while Minerva only crossed her arms.

"I will draw you, Saruman, as poison is drawn from a wound," Gandalf answered.

Minerva noticed how his voice had changed as the insane king spoke again, "If I go, Théoden dies!"

"You did not kill me, you will not kill him."

"Rohan is _mine_!"

An involuntary flinch escaped her when Théoden lunged at Gandalf with a scream of defiance. Force shoved him back into his throne; the figure of the king began to slowly change — his eyes cleared of the spell, his body turned younger and firmer than before.

A golden-haired woman caught him in his arms, carefully feeling his face and calling his name.

Minerva spaced out for a minute there and stared at the man, wriggling underneath Gimli's weight. His eyes met hers by an accident — the hatred in them shone brighter than Gandalf's robes, if that was even possible. And when he was thrown from the hall by the guards of Théoden, she could feel the same hatred being adverted towards her. What did _she_ do?

She regained her focus when Gandalf casually walked past her. "Wait, _Lathspell_ ," Minerva called. "Where are you going?"

"We all might need to attend a funeral when the sun sets," he said, turning back at her. "I shall tell you everything afterwards."

And then he threw her a pack of crimson red. A carton of muggle cigarettes.

Minerva could practically _feel_ his sly grin as he turned around and descended down the stairs.

That man was going to be the death of her.

* * *

 **A.N.: Hope you enjoyed! :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**_HI! I wrote yet another chapter! This one is a bit longer than the previous, so I hope you'll enjoy!_**

* * *

 _Chapter 3_

Minerva idly fixed her square glasses, gazing at the young woman before her with interest. "Minerva McGonagall," she said. "A pleasure meeting you, Éowyn."

The girl nodded in answer to her words. "I should show you your quarters," she said. "Would you mind me inquiring if you shall stay with someone else, my lady?"

"Oh, please. I insist you don't call me that," Minerva said, rising from the table she had dined at. "And to answer your question, no, I won't stay in the same room as Gandalf the White."

Éowyn blushed lightly, dazed by the specific reply. "I didn't mean to assume…"

"You assumed correctly," the witch replied with a light wave of her hand. "Under different circumstances anything could have happened. Shall we go?"

"Of course, Minerva," Éowyn replied softly.

The two of them left the Golden Hall and the woman beside her led Minerva to her bedchambers.

"Perhaps _you_ could tell me whose funeral I'm supposed to attend?" the raven haired witch asked.

"Théodred's," Éowyn answered, her expression momentarily changing to a pained one. "The son of the king is the one who died. My cousin."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Minerva said automatically. _How many times more would she have to say these words?_

"Thank you."

The room Minerva had been given was light and pleasant, but nothing that could be compared to her quarters back at Hogwarts. Nevertheless, it was cozy enough to spend a night at.

"If you will need anything, you may find me or any of the servants," Éowyn said, standing in the doorway.

"Thank you."

With a light smile the woman left, closing the wooden door behind her.

"What did I get myself into?" Minerva murmured, walking to the wide window. "What did _he_ get me into?"

Her mind slipped as her emerald eyes gazed at the shadowed fields of Middle-earth. Her puzzle of memories was yet to be completed — only fragments were left from the past few days. But Minerva now managed to recall how snow had surrounded her the last evening.

" _I adore winter," he said, surveying the steady flow of the river under the bridge._

" _Hmm?" Minerva hummed into the darkness of the moonless night._

" _And I love the image of snowflakes in your raven hair." Gandalf's hand squeezed hers tighter. "Pardon my words, Minerva, I'm but a mortal in awe."_

 _Blush crept to her pale cheeks; she didn't dare to break the comfortable silence and only studied their joined fingers._

" _I might know why you love winter so much," she said, catching a glimpse of his smoky smile. "It gives you a perfect opportunity for a camouflage."_

 _She heard him laugh sweetly and it warmed her distant heart._

" _I should tell you one other thing," Minerva spoke after a moment._

 _He turned his head to gaze at her with his maddeningly burning gaze. "My ears are at your service, dear."_

" _Remember that flattery will get you nowhere."_

A soft knock on the door echoed in the fragile silence of the room as a rifle, shot from within a foot of distance. Minerva murmured under her breath and tore her distant gaze away from the scenery before her eyes. When she opened the door of her room, her expression differed to a blank one.

"Does your visit have a point?" Minerva said, leaning on the hard wood. "I'm not in a mood to listen to you."

"I see," Gandalf said. "But no, my visit indeed _does_ have a point, contrary to your opinion. I'd like to invite you to a funeral."

"Very kind of you, prince charming. And they dare say romance is dead," she replied dryly. "Perhaps you'll even gift me a spot in a graveyard?"

"It can be arranged, Minerva."

His dark gaze held her rooted to a spot for a moment, until Gandalf held out a hand for her to grasp.

"You love taking risks, don't you, _Lathspell_?"

The man frowned. "I've always despised this particular name."

"So I've seen," Minerva said, brushing past him and walking into the hall. "Shall we?"

Gandalf tssk-ed at her in disapproval of her words, but followed her retreating form anyway.

* * *

Flowers fell under her feet as if time had frozen in place. Tears splattered against the blades of soft grass, grieving gazes burned holes in the ground beneath.

Minerva had never liked funerals.

First, it had been her older brother Robert. An auror, who'd died in resistance against Gellert Grindelwald after an astray _avada kedavra_ hit him square in the chest. The funeral had been humble, dark and her very first. She had been but sixteen at the time.

Then it had been her father. Tortured and killed by Grindelwald himself the night she'd graduated from Hogwarts. Driven by her violent desire of revenge, Minerva had joined the aurors a week after his burial.

Her third funeral was for all those who had died fighting among the ranks of aurors, led by Albus Dumbledore. Minerva hadn't cried at funerals since then.

When another dark lord had risen, Minerva secretly buried the memory of her friend Tom Riddle deep in her heart. And then she attended the funeral of her beloved students — Lily, James and Peter Pettigrew's.

Attending her fifth funeral, Minerva'd noticed that Albus had never looked quite as peaceful before.

At the last funeral, Minerva had been a headmistress, responsible for the lives of children and aurors who had already been lying six feet under the ground. She had managed to hold her tears when their names were called.

Minerva McGonagall had never liked funerals. Who could blame her?

* * *

Minerva fiddled with the red pack of her cigarettes. She hadn't had a smoke since the ending of the first wizarding war; her last butt fell on the ground the same day Grindelwald's armies had yielded. A rather disgusting muggle habit she had caught from fellow aurors.

As she sat on the stairs of the Golden Hall, Minerva drew a single cigarette from its packaging.

"Here's to nothing," she murmured and placed it between her teeth.

"Minerva!"

Her head shot upwards at the familiar call of her name. He gave her the cigarettes _himself_ and now he wasn't going to let her smoke them? Minerva was about to begin yet another argument, but she noticed that Gandalf was carrying someone. Not just someone — a child.

Minerva gathered herself and rose to her feet, greeting him at the top of the stairs as he practically flew up them. King Théoden was not far behind, carrying a boy in his arms.

"Where did you manage to get these children from?" she questioned, pulling the cigarette out of her mouth. "And _why?_ "

"It seems as if their village was under one of the attacks towards Rohan," Gandalf answered, failing in an attempt to soothe the crying girl. "They are more than scared and exhausted."

"I want mama!" the child cried out, wriggling in his grasp.

"Perhaps you should give her to me," she said, carefully approaching the situation.

Gandalf didn't argue or say anything in return, handing her the exhausted child. Théoden walked past them into the Golden Hall, calling for his servants to fetch a meal for the starving duo.

The very moment Minerva felt little arms wrap around her stiff neck, all thoughts of cigarettes were blown from her preoccupied mind.

"Let's get you inside, dearest," Minerva murmured against her golden head. "We'll take care of you."

The bitter and fearful tears halted somewhere along the way to the table where her brother sat, already taken care of. Minerva seated her on the wooden bench by the table, throwing a warm glance at Éowyn, who was approaching with plates in her hands. Minerva's fingers lightly brushed against the girl's face as she tucked away a strand of her blonde hair.

She smiled gently, glancing at the pair of siblings from beside them. "Now, Éothain and Freda, you shall both eat and regain your strength." She almost laughed as their eyes widened at the sound of their names. "Later on we'll have a small chat."

They both nodded, digging into the hot meal before their eyes.

"Poor children," Éowyn whispered beside her. "What happened to them?"

"You should tell king Théoden that their village was burned to ground by Wildmen," Minerva answered, leaning back on a column in distress. "Their mother sent them here to raise alarm."

She nodded without a question, handing her a pair of duvets. "I'll be back in a moment."

When Éowyn left her side, Minerva mused how Middle-earth wasn't that far from England in count of constant deaths. These children hadn't lost their mother, she was certain of this, but everything could happen in a space of a few hours.

"Ma'am?"

Minerva lowered her head to catch a glimpse of Freda's teary eyes. She pushed away from the wooden column and reached the grieving child in a few strides. With an aching heart, Minerva covered their bodies with the warm duvets she had been given and sat down beside her.

"What is the matter, sweetie?" she asked gently, casting a worried glance at their pale faces.

"Where's mama?"

 _Poor children indeed._ "Your mother will come back for you," Minerva said, wiping away her tears. "And sooner than you would expect." Her eyes momentarily turned to observe the arising argument between Aragorn and Théoden. "You'll see."

Freda gazed at her with hopeful eyes. "Will you help us find her, ma'am?"

Minerva only nodded slightly, running a hand through her golden hair. "Take care of each other," she said and rose from the table as the argument between the two men behind her reached its culmination.

"We ride to Helm's Deep," the king said in time for Minerva to catch. "This is my final decision."

Aragorn stormed out of the hall, cursing under his breath.

 _Not again._

* * *

" _Helm's Deep_ ," Gandalf spat, striding through the crowd of people.

"They flee to the mountains when they should stand and fight," Gimli said beside him. "Who will defend them if not their king?"

"He's only doing what he thinks is best for his people. Helm's Deep has saved them in the past," Aragorn answered gravely.

Minerva knew there was nothing they could do. And even if there would be, she would be the last one to do something. This world wasn't hers.

"There is no way out of that ravine. Theoden is walking into a trap. He thinks he's leading them to safety. What they will get is a massacre," Gandalf said, flying into the stables. "Theoden has a strong will, but I fear for him. I fear for the survival of Rohan. He will need you before the end, Aragorn. The people of Rohan will need you." His gaze lingered on Minerva for a single moment. "The defenses _have_ to hold."

"They will hold."

Gandalf stopped before Shadowfax and flashed Minerva a completely innocent smile. "I'm afraid our talk will have to wait, my dear," he said and mounted his horse.

"You might as well cancel it, sweetie," she replied with a blank expression, "for our next meeting shall be at your very own funeral."

"We shall see." He gave an unnoticeable wink. "But for now, look to my coming at first light on the fifth day. At dawn, look to the east."

"Don't worry, I won't," Minerva muttered after him as Shadowfax darted forward and out of the stables.

* * *

 **A.N.: :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**_Hi! Thank you for all of your kind reviews, they really make me happy :)_**

 ** _My computer broke, so the next chapter might be a bit late (I do hope it won't be !). Anyway, thank you for reading. Enjoy!_**

* * *

 _Chapter 4_

The silver constellations above were different from the ones back home, where sky was almost never clear of clouds, where rain poured every other day. Even the stars paled in comparison to what danced before her eyes.

Minerva blinked back her bitter tears.

No, she didn't long for her homeland, she didn't long for Hogwarts or her colourless teaching robes. She missed her life before it all. Perhaps it was but a silly dream, for there never had been such a thing, but Minerva's heart trembled in her chest within a thought of what it would had been like.

A single collection of images flashed through her hazy mind, the horrid aftermath of war after war that left scars beneath her skin. _Coffins lowered into the ground, grimacing bodies with empty eyes and mouths deprived of screaming, red roses, tears, blood on her hands that never did wash away completely, darkness, everything dyed in black…_

Everything since then had been dark.

Solemn and calm, Minerva cut the train of thoughts off, finally closing her tingling with weariness eyes. Her back ached even at the mare idea of spending an unfortunate night in a middle of fields, but her head was already heavy with sleep and it didn't take long for her to shut down completely.

* * *

 _Bodies lay around her. The purity of the forest was torn apart and the only thing left was the smouldering battlefield. Heavy hung the silence above the thundering sky as she was left to gaze around in grief._

 _Minerva's wary steps halted as she managed to recognize a single face among the expressionless and lifeless crowd of them. As if through fog she carefully kneeled beside his crooked body, dropping her wand onto the soft ground._

 _Harry. The boy whom Minerva'd grown to love as her own child, only to be taken by the long and cruel hands of death._

 _Her fingers lightly brushed a strand of his dark hair away from the scarred forehead. Harry could never quite tame his wild curls. His skin felt unbelievably cold under her fevered hand._

 _Minerva rose to her unsteady feet, in need to continue her journey through the mist of bodies. She was supposed to leave all of this behind._

 _A single step was all it took for her to succumb to the familiar grip on her leg._

" _You can't… leave us," Harry whispered, gazing at her with pleading emerald eyes. "You could have saved — us…"_

 _Minerva's gaze fell to his face and she once again kneeled onto the ground._

" _I'll stay," she whispered. "It's my fault. I'll stay."_

 _Her distant gaze focused on her pale hands, turning black, dying everything within her, and blood was seeping into her torn clothes, black, obsidian blood…_

Minerva flinched awake. The atmosphere around her was still and silent, she was the only one awake, it seemed.

She rose to a sitting position and gently brushed away sweat from her own forehead. Her hands shook faintly as the remains of the towering dream vanished from her mind.

"I'll stay," Minerva repeated faintly, but a whisper left her lips.

She was accustomed to waking up in a manner as such. But a few days ago she had managed to escape the reality of her nightly adventures with a simple doze of dreamless sleep potion. Now, Minerva didn't own anything that could be of use to avoid nightmares and prolong her sleeping time. _Couldn't had that fool taken a purple vile instead of bloody cigarettes?_

Minerva drew in a breath of fresh air and pushed herself off of the ground. She grabbed the leather bag she had been given at Rohan, stretching out in the darkness of the night. When she at last finished rummaging through it, Minerva dropped it back onto the grass and took a sip of water. A minute after she carefully stepped among the sleeping people of Rohan; they were but a day's walk from the Helm's Deep and their gruelling, tedious journey would be over.

Time passed slowly as Minerva sat upon a cliff, feet dangling above the abyss of green fields. Sun rose in the east, gradually bringing peace upon her mind and the first light of the day, and she could rest for a while undisturbed.

"Can't sleep?" Aragorn inquired behind her.

"Never could," Minerva answered, waiting for him to sit beside. "Neither can you, it seems?"

The man only nodded, relaxing alongside the witch. "A beautiful sunrise," Aragorn said. "Would be a shame to miss it."

Minerva hummed lightly in approval, staring off into the crimson light across the horizon. "Why am I here?" she asked.

"The answer lies within Gandalf," he said. "And that man _can_ keep his secrets hidden."

"I should loathe him for that."

"And you don't?"

"I do, of course I do." Minerva shook her head slowly. "But not because Gandalf avoids the subject of my interest. I don't feel any desire to know the answers anymore."

"Then you do not have a single reason to abhor him."

"Oh, I wish," she said. "He dared to take away my memory _and_ he threw me into a middle of a war which I know nothing of. That's enough to fuel my hatred."

Aragorn lit his pipe and drew on it lightly. Silence hung above them in addition to her words.

"Frodo and Sam," he said.

Minerva turned to gaze at him in mild confusion.

"They carry a heavy burden towards the mountain of doom," he said. "And I think you deserve to hear the truth of our world."

She stayed silent.

* * *

Minerva gripped the reins of her obsidian horse tighter, gazing at the two smiling children riding beside her. She led Atratus through the hills towards the Helm's Deep, yet again listening to the familiar galloping of horses.

"It's true, you don't see many Dwarf women," Gimli voiced nearby her. "And in fact, they are so alike in voice and appearance that they're often mistaken for Dwarf men!"

Éowyn's bright smile wasn't unnoticed by the few of them who rode beside her.

"It's the beards," Aragorn mouthed.

"This, in turn, has given rise to the belief that there are no Dwarf women," the dwarf continued, "and that Dwarves just spring out of holes in the ground!" His loud laugh joined Éowyn's light one. "...which is, of course, ridiculous."

Quite the sudden, Gimli's horse took fright and flew forward, causing Éowyn to let go of the reins she'd held. The red-headed dwarf fell backwards, thrown onto the wilted grass.

"It's all right. Nobody panic!" he cried. "That was deliberate. It was deliberate!"

Minerva's face cracked into a genuine smile. Her expression differed as her sensitive hearing picked out a light sound of… howling?

"Wait, Aragorn," she said, holding back her horse and halting her own steps. "Something lurks ahead of us."

And surely, clashing of blades could be heard in the distance and Legolas emerged ahead of them, shouting, "Wargs!"

Aragorn swiftly mounted his horse, calling back to all, "We're under attack!" He was one of the first ones to answer the call for aid, followed by the rest of men.

Minerva hesitated to mount her own horse, pondering in silence. Her hand rose to grab onto its soft mane, but Atratus made the decision for her — he simply fled from her touch.

"Calm down, you stubborn mule," she mumbled under her breath, catching him by the reins. "We're going to Helm's Deep."

Fate gave her a chance to avoid war — Minerva was not going to decline the warm invitation to not kill anyone. She mounted her horse and gazed at the two children who rode beside her — they seemed beyond frightened, gazing at her with confusion and mute panic. Women passed by them in heist, carrying their off-springs, leading them to a secure shelter ahead of them.

"Let's ride," Minerva said, gazing at Éowyn in question. "They'll reach Helm's Deep alive without your help."

The lady nodded, leading her horse in faint defeat that lingered across her expression. _Why did she seek war so?_

Minerva urged her horse, running a hand through his mane. "Atratus!" she cried out as he neighed and launched forward, nearly knocking her off of the saddle. Honestly, this horse could _barely_ stay still.

A shadow bolted before her cautious eyes — in time her companion had sensed danger, for it would had been too late. A horrid wolf-like creature growled at her from beside, demonstrating its razor-sharp canines. Minerva's fists clenched tighter against the reins as she held herself high between the grisly warg and the mummified people of Rohan.

Her hand lay motionless upon her hip, fingers lightly brushing against her wand. The enemy lingered a second more, once again baring its teeth. _Dare it attack?_ Minerva braced herself, but the warg gave a single whine of defeat and with a turn leaped away.

"You might be a special one, Atratus," Minerva said with a light tug at the corners of her lips. "Wild and stubborn, but special."

Her horse neighed in answer, appreciating the gentle rub of his neck.

"Éowyn?" she called after a minute, rather shaken by a scream behind the flock of women. "They might not, after all, reach Helm's Deep without a help of a healer," Minerva mumbled. Éowyn reached her within a second. "Keep Éothain and Freda beside you."

"Minerva, wait!" Éowyn cried out, but the witch had already urged Atratus and was gone behind a hill.

When the witch at last breached the summit of the hill, her jaw clenched at the sudden rush of adrenaline, pumping through her veins. Minerva bid Atratus to halt and casted a quick glance across the whole scene. A sickening sound of bones giving in under pressure reached her through the mist of shouts and growls, a shrill scream pierced the air as the same beast tore up one of the men, its canines sinking into his guts. The few of the men that fought were nothing compared to the hairy beasts — the casualties were sky high.

Minerva dismounted her horse and jogged to one of the fallen soldiers. The man was barely alive, she found, as her fingers discovered the light pump of his throat. After a diagnosing charm, Minerva whipped out her wand and stopped the bleeding of his wounds; a _'ferula'_ cast upon his lifeless body bound his fractured arm.

Rising to her feet, Minerva left the man to be taken care of. Scent of copper hit her, delayed and expected, and fairly so — blood was spilled on both her and all around. The witch slashed her wand through the air and a warg fell beneath her feet; she had never been a prey and these beasts would never change it. Minerva calmly crouched before it and shifted a groaning guard from the clutches of the wolf's jaw.

"Can you hear me?" she asked evenly, gazing into his wild eyes. When he managed a nod, Minerva splinted his broken ribs with a single wave of her wand. "Tell me your name, soldier."

The guard choked on his own blood, attempting to use his gift of speech — but in vain. His hand gripped her arm in a desperate act of pleading, but Minerva brushed it away, casting a spell to clear out his throat. "Háma," he said. "My name is… Háma."

"Lie still then, Háma," Minerva answered, healing his punctured lungs. She patched up his gashes and cuts — fortunately, he seemed to have had pulled it off with only a few colourful bruises beside them — and handed him his sword. "You should not move more than necessary, although you are completely healed."

Minerva assisted him in rising from the ground, before turning to face yet another wounded soldier.

"Thank you, Istar!" Háma called behind her at the same time as Legolas cried out for Aragorn.

Her back turned away from the elf's pain without her realizing it. And when her emerald eyes fell on the blood on her fingers, Minerva felt like earth was slipping under her.

" _I can't do this…_ " she whispered, before her mind brought up the distant memories.


End file.
